


Folie à deux

by NorthernLights37



Series: Lamentation [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark everybody because fuck it :), Dark!Dany, Dark!Jon, Dragons, F/M, Is it dark fluff?, Magic, Total Targaryen Domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:09:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21672736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernLights37/pseuds/NorthernLights37
Summary: Folie à deux:  A madness shared by two.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Lamentation [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1555984
Comments: 60
Kudos: 186





	Folie à deux

**Author's Note:**

> Am I working on two other fics?  
> Yes.  
> Did I say fuck it and finish this up, with Dany and Jon going full Bonnie and Clyde?  
> Hell yeah I did.
> 
> Lots of people 'bout to die in this one.
> 
> Which begs the question - maybe madness or greatness really just depends on who wins, eh?  
> Westeros kinda has it coming, you know.
> 
> Enjoy for what it is, some dark shit that was really fun to write :) Hate it? Cool. Do I care? Not really. We're all just anonymous strangers on these interwebs, just sharing the same ride together. Love it? Hit me up with kudos, that's my shit.

Jon sees everything, now.

He can see, in precise detail, the way of the world, as it is.

It is the wheel, and along the edges, there on the rim, are those who suffer and choke and die, the masses who are sacrificed without thought or care by those who live along the spokes. Their lives are not their own, and they toil under the weight of it all. Their blood paints these lands, from Essos to Westeros to whatever lies beyond. They are the slaves, and the soldiers, and the smallfolk alike, and they wear their chains though some do not see.

But Jon sees.

And those with the power? Those who carry those lives in their hands?

They stopped caring a very long time ago, if they ever did at all.

They care for their power, and their wealth, their station. They claw and scratch, lead their people to their deaths like lambs to a slaughter, and they shed no tears for those who are lost. They barter in flesh, no better than whoremongers, and they think themselves justified.

He has seen it in the flames, he has heard the screams, the pleas. He has seen the hopelessness on the faces of the lowest.

In another life, in another place, he was one of them, the lowest of the low, the stain of his noble father’s sins painted across his chest, bared for all to see. He had grown up amongst the powerful, but that power had always been beyond his grasp.

He wonders, sometimes, at the truth in Alliser Thorne’s words.

_But you, Lord Snow…you’ll be fighting their battles forever._

It is funny, Jon thinks. The things he remembers. The signs that were there, all along, but he had been too blind to see them. But Jon remembers this, most of all, because Alliser Thorne had been right.

But now, Jon smiles, stokes the fire in the hearth of the chambers he shares with his Red Queen, and lets his fingers dance in the warmth of the flames.

Now, though, he has been made into something else, something different. The fire that has burned within his heart from the moment he awakened on that cold, stone slab is an inferno now.

Not a man, nor a God. He is a ghost, himself, a being returned, and from what, he does not know. He doesn’t remember what lay between death and life, and he has stopped caring.

Jon is a dragon, and he lives in only now.

Alliser Thorne had been right, but his words had been meant for a different man, for the boy who had suffered in the ice and snow.

Now, he is done fighting battles that belong to others, because at the center of the wheel is Jon. Jon, and Daenerys, and the child they have made together. They are the hub, the locus around which the wheel turns, and he finally understands.

The battle he will fight now will be for them.

They will break the wheel.

They are the only ones who can.

This is what he was born for. This is the destiny that has always dangled, just beyond his fingertips, bound and gagged and shoved down deep. Waiting.

Oh, how they have been waiting, on this foreign shores, as well. Waiting and planning and scheming, laying the foundation for what is to come, and soon it will be time.

Ten years, they have waited, and now Aerion is no boy of ten; He stands tall and proud, with hair like moonlight and eyes of fire, a man of twenty. He is the greatest achievement Jon has ever known, the fulfillment of every secret wish he’d harbored so long ago. He is a warrior with a scholar’s heart. There is a core of sweetness within him ringed in violence, the two so twisted together that it is impossible to discern, at times. He feels the same rush of pride, every time he looks upon the lad, as though his heart will burst. Soon, he tells himself again, it will be time.

He pulls back his hand, and goes back to the bed he shares with his wife, where she sits nestled amongst the silks, pale and silver and lovely. She had bewitched him from the moment he saw her, and still she does, the curve of her lip one he could study forever, the arch of her brow and shape of her cheek a monument to perfection.

“What did you see?” She asks whatever she wishes, now, secure in the knowledge that the urge to hide himself from her is long gone. There are no secrets between them, no desire unfulfilled, no room for hurt or sorrow or remorse.

“We shall strike them where they will feel it the most, my love.” He folds her slim hand in his, and kisses her soft, pale skin, leans into her touch when she slides her free hand along his clean-shaven cheek. “First,” he says, he between gentle presses of his lips, “we’ll take the Iron Bank. Then,” he whispers, “we take the other banks as well. I imagine it will be very hard to wage a mighty war against us if they are penniless.”

She smiles, full and wide-lipped, no more shadows haunting her eyes when she looks upon him, not anymore. Not for some time.

She purrs, at his words and his attentions, shifting and twisting to be closer, always closer, ever closer. “And then,” she says, “we go west.”

“Aye,” he agrees. “Then we go west.”

She moves like a ribbon of heat under his hands, and he lays her back and loves her slowly, worships her with his mouth and hands and cock, brings her to the heights of the pleasure only he can give her.

They belong to each other, completely, and where one goes, so goes the other.

That is the pledge they have made, and this is an oath Jon will keep until his last and final death.

\----------

The Freehold Cities are theirs, finally, the banks and moneyhouses that populate these eastern shores relieved of their gold and finery, won with remarkably little bloodshed but an abundance of fire.

Three fully grown dragons can accomplish quite a bit, if used in the correct manner.

And my, how their dragons have grown.

Dawnstar, he of cream and gold, is the streaking behemoth of the morning skies, nears his eight year since hatching. When he takes to the skies, even the mightiest quake. Aerion rides his mount with an ease and grace, nearly at one with his beast.

Ember, he of red and black, is a beast of nightmarish tendency brought to life. It is whispered, in the Freehold Cities, that the Red Terror is a spawn of whichever hell one happens to believe in, sent to punish those who have turned their backs on the Gods. Jon laughs, whenever he hears this, because they have all forgotten. Valyria is long gone, and so are her mysteries, but one truth remains, and very soon all the realms of men will be reminded: The Targaryens and their dragons answer to neither Gods nor men. And Jon’s dragon answers only to Jon, is as hard and merciless as his master.

But the greatest of the three, the one whose dark shadow signals the doom to come, is Drogon, the Black Dread reborn, and he is nothing short of unstoppable.

Just like his mistress.

She has not been idle, no not at all, his clever Queen. She saw the larger picture before he did, and she has long planned for what they will do now. She, like he, is no longer burdened by the idea of diplomacy.

She, like he, has now since realized that to break the wheel, they must break the Great Houses, break the stranglehold of power and position that has slowly poisoned that land. They have a mighty army at their disposal, now, of every origin imaginable. They are drawn to the Dragon Prince, the silver-haired man who rides the white dragon, they flock to him in droves, unable to resist his pull.

They flock to power, real power, the power of the flame and beast and mighty leather wings that whipcrack through the skies.

Westeros is falling apart, they hear, fraying at the seams, dissolving into the very chaotic maelstrom of regional wars that their ancestors had finally brought to an end, that constant cycle of war and death and jockeying for power.

There will only be one more war, and the dragons will make it.

Those who survive will build something new.

Daenerys puts it so simply, so brutally, so utterly flawlessly that he has adopted the phrase as his own, as has Aerion. It is the command they give all those who have bent the knee or tasted the flame, it is the choice they have presented.

Live in the new world, or die in the old.

In a world full of complication, Jon has grown very fond of simplicity.

\---------

They regroup, in Meereen, before they begin their push west, just as the Red Queen did so long ago.

Atop the Great Pyramid, the trio hold audience, and prepare their final attack.

As Jon and Aerion strap on their sword belts, intent on sparring, one sunny, bright afternoon, a sellsword appears.

Jon knows who this man is, sees his bride look upon the man with nothing but disdain, feels no jealousy at all.

He simply tires of the man’s presence, in short order, and when the fool approaches father and son, with a viper’s tongue and poison words, Jon just smiles.

Daario Naharis is only a sentence in before Jon has skinned his steel and plunged the blade into the man’s chest, directly through the heart. He is still smiling when he pulls his sword clear, watches the man’s lifeless body drop onto the tiles of the corridor, still smiling when he looks to Aerion, whose mouth is open, his eyes dancing between his father and the dead man.

“He never saw it coming,” Aerion breathes out, then gives a hearty laugh and claps his father on the shoulder, and Jon merely nods.

“Lad, in this world, there are rules. Even amongst sellswords, I suppose. I’m sure he meant to challenge me, was trying to get a rise out of me, stir my anger so that I would be reckless. But always remember,” Jon says, sheathing his blade and putting a hand on his son’s shoulder, pulling him close, “their rules do not apply to us.”

Daenerys appears, and he wonders if she was there the whole time, watching, receives his answer in the wicked gleam in her eyes, the way she strolls over casually and strokes a hand down his chest. She will ride him hard, later, he knows this, knows what she wants in the barest shift of her expression. She checks her gaze to their son, who is lost in thought, the culmination of their last, dying hopes made flesh and standing before them. “The only rules we adhere to, Aerion, are the rules we make for ourselves.”

\---------

Their fleet has sailed, bound for Westeros, bolstered by the forces of the Iron Islands. There are two who have come before them, Yara and a Martell that Jon is not familiar with, not that it matters. They do not concern him.

Daenerys has treated with them, and they know the plan, and the part they will play.

For this war will first be fought in hearts, and minds.

The next wave of ships that sails, will carry their massive forces.

But this first wave, carries grain, and fabrics, tinctures and ointments, seeds and implements.

And arms.

They will sway the smallfolk to their side, give them all the things their masters, those Lords and Ladies, those who think themselves their betters, deny them.

Then they will arm them.

This war will be the utter destruction of the centers of power, in Westeros.

The Great Houses will break, and fracture, and crumble to dust.

Those who do not submit, will burn.

It is what he has come to understand, what Daenerys has shown him. Those chains that bind the people who await them, the ones they will finally set free, are chains that must be broken by the ones who wear them.

A rebellion, of such size and scale that it cannot be stopped.

And it is the dragons who will lead them.

\----------

First, they take the Riverlands.

Jon’s blood pumps and burns and he feels so gloriously alive, as Riverrun is reduced to ashes. Ember is in rare form, giving the red gift to any who stray too close. House Tully falls, and Jon smiles.

Edmure Tully tries to save face, spits curses and malicious taunts at them, even as he is bound and trussed.

“You’re mad,” he screams, even as his own people keep him at bay, short swords and pitchforks surrounding him, his face covered in ash. “You do not have the right! I am a Tully, I am the Warden of the Riverlands! All of this belongs to me!”

The smallfolk hiss at his words, and there is no pity on their faces. The fish have ruled them for far too long.

Daenerys takes his arm, as they stand before the screaming man. “Madness,” Jon says, “is a very subjective thing.”

Daenerys comes close, brushes the man’s hair back from his face, and considers him. “We shall give you a fighting chance, Warden of the Riverlands. You are a fish, yes?” She peeks over her shoulder at Jon, and throws him a wink, then turns back. “Let us see if you can swim.”

Aerion stays behind, when they leave, for it is he who will instruct the good people of the Riverlands on how they shall proceed next. For now, comes a new age, and they must learn to rule themselves. Aerion will show them the way, Jon knows, for it is he who will remain, long after Jon and Daenerys are gone. He will be their shepherd, guide them, and protect them.

They will have a choice, now, these people who have had none. They will choose from amongst themselves, who will govern them. Those they chose will do so for only a year, not a day more, then another will be chosen. And on and on it will go, and none shall serve more than once.

Jon and Daenerys leave their son to his works, people clustered around him, and they drag Edmure Tully, Warden of the Riverlands, behind them, tying him off to one of Drogon’s great horns.

They fly, out into the Narrow Sea, and then Dany cuts the rope, and together they watch the unlucky Tully scion sink into the waves below.

Not much of a fish at all, Jon thinks, and laughs to himself as they wing their way back to shore. Their work is unfinished, and there is still much to do.

\----------

The Stormlands are next, and they are taken in much easier fashion.

Gendry Baratheon has no love for the crown, anymore, nor for leading. He only wishes to swing his hammer, in peace. Still, Storm’s End is consumed in flame, and he stands shoulder to shoulder with Jon as the Keep crumbled beneath Dawnstar’s golden flame.

“He knows you’re coming,” Gendry says, his eyes heavy. “The Broken King. Take care, Jon.”

The man begins to walk off, a man who, long ago, had not been so very different from Jon. “Gendry,” Jon calls out. The man turns, his eyes bright and blue, though age has begun to whiten his hair and line his face. “If you need somewhere to go, seek us out in Volantis. There is a place for you there, if you want it.”

Gendry seems to consider it, for a moment, but shakes his head. “Not now,” he says. “Maybe someday. Time to do what I want for a change.” His eyes fall on the Keep, smoking and little more than a heap of ash, the townsfolk already gathering ‘round the Silver Prince. “I’m bloody done with duty.”

Jon nods, and smiles, as the man walks away.

He doubts he’ll ever see him again.

\---------

The Westerlands are next, and Jon and Daenerys are unsurprised to see Tyrion Lannister standing, awaiting their arrival, flanked by what dwindling Lannister forces remain in these lands.

They have clad themselves this day in heavy, black plate, the familiar three-headed dragon cast in crimson above their hearts. He loves her like this, loves her in all ways, but especially like this, when she looks exactly like the weapon she has become. Later, they will love roughly, bite and scratch and claw at each other, their bloodlust ignited.

But now, they prepare for battle.

Tyrion has but thirty men, by Jon’s count.

He eyes the battlements of the Keep, sees the few ballistae mounted atop. He laughs, low, the sound muffled by his helmet.

They are on foot, the Black King and the Red Queen, and their dragons remain close by, just out of range of the iron bolts he knows will be pointed at their hearts.

Aerion is above, his dragon hidden in the clouds, waiting for the signal.

They stop, their eyes on the few archers Tyrion has managed to gather together, whose bow arms tremble, likely with fear, though possibly with hunger.

Times have been lean, in the Westerlands, with their empty mines. It has come to them, the knowledge that Tyrion hoards what remains for the nobility, and leaves the people beyond his gates to starve. This comes as little surprise to Jon. Tyrion has always been willing to make the downtrodden suffer, so long as it gets him what he wants.

He removes his helmet, as does Daenerys, and together, as one, they stare at the half man who has wreaked so much havoc on their lives.

Tyrion Lannister has never looked so pale, and Jon finds it all very amusing, suddenly, very amusing indeed.

“You look terrified, my Lord, but unsurprised.” He gives the man a wicked grin, as he extends his elbow for his Queen. “I take it word of our exploits has reached you at last.”

“Rebellion, you mean.” The small man spits the words out, his distaste clear. “A cunning plan, to be sure.” He looks between them, his eyes landing on Daenerys only briefly before flitting away. “I almost wish I’d thought of it. Your brother’s rule,” he continues, his voice growing leaden, “has been difficult.”

Jon chuckles, and he watches the man’s eyes narrow, can see the terror that lurks behind, the fear. Tyrion has always been very clever, and he is certainly right to be afraid. “He’s not my brother, but of course you know that well. And as for rebellion, Tyrion,” Jon raised his hands and gestured to the men behind him, in their Lannister red and gold. “You there, you men. How many of your kinsman have you lost fighting for this accursed family? How many of your brothers and fathers have been stolen by these proud Lions? How many mothers and daughters have starved, just outside these grand walls? How many of your children are near starving now?”

They are listening, Jon knows. And there is a bleak understanding, in each face he sees.

“Does your Lord starve?” Jon shook his head, his face wrinkling. “No, of course not. What remains is for him, not for you.” Jon points a gauntleted hand at Tyrion now, who begins to shrink away. “Where is his sword? His shield?” He fixes each man he sees with a pointed stare. “You fight for him, but he does not fight for you.”

Tyrion begins to interject, but the strength has left his voice altogether. “That’s not entirely…”

“Silence!” Daenerys gives the command and Tyrion obeys, and then she walks, makes a slow, wide circle around the cluster of men. “Lay down your swords, and no harm shall come to you. Already, your families are being fed, beyond these gates. Already, our forces provide clothes for your children, seed for your harvest. We have no quarrel with you.” She completes her circuit and comes to a stop before Tyrion. “Only with him.”

A sword drops.

Then another.

Then another.

Tyrion is shaking, looking up at Daenerys as though he knows, at last, that death is upon him. “You seek revenge, I understand,” he stutters out, sparing a glance for the sword he has yet to unsheathe, the Valyrian steel belted at his waist. He has not yet realized that it will be another who will give him that last, final gift.

“Revenge?” Daenerys laughs, a bright, merry sound. “Oh no, Tyrion. There is no hate in my heart for you, or anyone else. I am far past hate.” She smiles almost kindly, and Jon sees the man relax. That will be his last mistake.

Then Jon’s beautiful deadly Queen lashes out with one hand, her dagger swiftly buried in the man’s eye. “This is a new world we create,” she says, as his body drops, as her dagger comes away bloody, flashing in the midday sun. “And there is no room for you in it.”

She turns her attention to the men who have disarmed themselves. “You have one hour to evacuate the Keep. Take what you will, for yourselves, for your families. Make sure it is known, that those who leave those walls will be under our protection, so long as they are willing to abide by our terms.”

They nod, and turn, and then they run.

She smiles, and takes Jon’s arm, and leans up, pressing a kiss upon his cheek.

“As always,” Jon says, his heart swollen and full, “your aim is true, my love.”

And true to their word, when the hour is passed, when the folk have retreated, save for the few who refuse to bow to the dragons, the signal is given. Ember and Drogon rear back, and let out their shrieking piercing cries.

From high above comes and answering call, and then their son is there, a white streak against the blue sky, and Casterly Rock burns.

He kisses her, as the flames rise high, and knows that this is true peace, at last.

\---------

King’s Landing awaits, and Jon feels a heady excitement.

He has been looking forward to this.

Daenerys is perched atop Drogon, the dragon curled around the Red Keep, built by dragon blood, so long ago.

Ember and Dawnstar remain aloft, awaiting that tug along their invisible chain, ready to unleash their unholy fire on those who would wish their masters harm.

But for Jon and Aerion, there is just the pumping of blood in their chests, the drum of war in each beat of their heart.

Father and son ascend the stairs, together.

The people have fled, for shelter, for safe harbor, those huddled masses who live below. Already, the red robed provide them succor outside the city walls. They will not return, and they do not care. They have languished, too long, under one King or another, and finally, they welcome the sight of dragons in the sky.

Word has spread, and they know that for them, the dragons bring relief.

There will be no relief, however, for those that walk these opulent halls.

In these halls, there has been no surrender, but Jon and Aerion have left their armies outside the gates.

This, they do alone, under his Red Queen’s watchful eye.

Their swords bear the stains of those who would not surrender, those who believe they protect the true King, Bran the Broken.

For those who remain, there is no mercy, nor pity, only steel and blood and death.

And he has found, as they have cleared these halls, he and his son, that there is little greater joy for him than standing back to back with his own flesh and blood, their swords singing as they dance their deadly dance together.

He has never been prouder of the lad than he is today.

Aerion, in his black plate, adjusts his helmet, and father and son kick open the doors to the throne room.

It is empty, save for the man who sits in the wheeled chair upon the dias.

There is no sound, save for the echoes of their boots as they approach.

Whatever it is that lives under Bran’s skin merely watches.

“Hello, friend,” Aerion says, removing his helmet, his silver hair glinting. “Finally, we are face to face.”

There is a strange blue glow in the Broken King’s eyes, a savage twist now on his lips, and in a different life Jon might have wondered what it all meant, what it was that lurked beneath the surface.

But this is a new life, and a new world approaching, and he doesn’t care in the slightest.

“Your guards have abandoned you.” It is the only thing Jon says to the one he once called ‘brother’.

This gets a reaction, finally, eyes flickering and shuttering as Bran the Broken looks imperiously at Jon. “Lured, no doubt, by your false promises of relief, of safe haven. How long, I wonder, until the world burns for your madness?”

Jon smiles.

Aerion, beside him, laughs. He takes one step, and then another, until he stands right before the Broken King, poor Brandon Stark of Winterfell. “Madness?” Aerion bends, crouching until the two are eye to eye. “Madness and Greatness are but two sides of the same coin, my friend. But you know this already.”

“You have hidden yourself from me. So long, I have tried to see the monster across the sea, but now you are revealed.” Bran checks his gaze to Jon, and there it is, the hate that lurks in his heart, finally on display. “What have you done, Jon? What have you unleashed upon these lands?”

“The raven speaks,” Aerion murmurs, and lays a metal-shrouded finger on the helpless man’s lips. “But there are none left to hear. The old ways are done, don’t you see?” He tips his head, and though Jon cannot see his face, he knows his son well, knows the hardness the young man is capable of, the hardness he has forged in the lad. “That’s always been your weakness, you know. The past, the present, these are clear to you. But the future,” he clucks his tongue and rises, coming now to stand beside his father once more. “The future remains closed to you.”

“What are you?” Bran’s eyes grow brighter, bluer, power shifting and ebbing in currents around them. Jon stands firm; Aerion has told him what is to come, and he is unafraid.

Aerion turns his head to Jon, and smiles, his eyes full of fire. “Helmet on now, father,” he whispers, and Jon complies. Above, the dragons approach, circling and crying, and through the slit in his helmet Jon can see his bride has joined them.

“I am something far greater than you, son of Ice.” Aerion looks up, and takes his father’s hand. “Do you know the trouble with ice, friend?” Bran only blinks at the query. “It melts.” Aerion looks up, and opens his mouth, and Jon prepares himself for what will follow.

“DRACARYS!” The scream pierces the air, loud and clear and so full of power that Jon’s ears ring with the force.

And then the world is on fire.

It is smoke, and flame, and the heat of a thousand suns, but Jon withstands. Jon persists. Jon burns as brightly as a star. For he knows the truth.

The fire belongs to them.

And he has no fear of the flame.

Finally, when it is done, when the raging inferno subsides, there is only he and Aerion, there amongst the rubble and ash, unharmed and whole.

He pulls his helmet off, and claps a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “It is done,” he says, joy rushing through him in endless waves.

Jon’s son draws in a deep, slow breath, closing his eyes, a moment of silent ponderance falling over him. Jon wonders what it is that he sees. He wonders if Daenerys is right, in her suspicions.

Perhaps it is true, that between them they have birthed the Red God incarnate, R’hllor reborn.

These are but musings, things to think upon at leisure, because he does not care.

What matters is that this is his son. That is all that matters, now. The silver Prince before him, and the Dragon Queen above, are the only things in the entirety of the world that stir Jon’s soul.

Topaz eyes meet Jon’s, and his son smiles. “Almost, Father. There is but one task left, and it lies to the North.”

He is right, of course. One Kingdom remains. One last piece of the puzzle. And for this task, only two dragons are required. Aerion will stay, and Jon and Daenerys will go, and Jon is very much looking forward to it.

\---------

This last trip is a leisurely one for him, so very different from their first journey north, together.

They take no armies from the South. Their ships have already docked at White Harbor. Already, their people begin to feed the starving North. Supply lines are being established, heavily guarded and protected, to finally provide for those who have suffered under the unfortunate rule of the Northern Stark Queen, from Winter Town to Deepwood Motte to Last Hearth, they spread, and they carry tidings of fire and blood with them. Their healers are assuredly hard at work, for if Westeros has languished in the last twenty years, it is the North that has suffered the most.

Independence, it would seem, carries a steep price.

They do not go directly to Winterfell.

They have seen, in the flames, what they must do first.

They separate, but only for a short while, each methodically seeking and finding the weirwood trees that dot the Northern landscape.

And they burn each and every one.

They make camp, surrounded by their mountainous dragons, a day from the Keep of Winterfell, and it is as though they are young again.

They lay atop bedrolls, bare to each other, tracing their fingers along scarred flesh.

“Are you sure you are ready for this, my love?” It is not doubt in her voice, and he does not take offense. She worries for him, he understands this. She worries at the weight of it, for the blood he will shed on the morrow runs through his veins, true enough.

She need not fear.

Her blood is the only song his heart knows now.

“Leave one wolf alive,” he whispers in the dark, “and the sheep are never safe. This flock is Aerion’s to tend, but we must ensure their safety. I am ready.” He claims her lips, tests his tongue against hers, buries himself in the forge fires of her warmth. She has made him whole, and there is nothing she could ask that he would not do.

It is the same for her, a love free of fear, free of doubt.

And he loves her as he does no other.

He takes her and claims her, for the thousandth time, and makes her scream under the cold, Northern sky. For he is hers, and she is his, and there are none who can stand against them now.

\---------

Two Starks await, not just one, when their dragons land thunderously before the familiar gates.

Jon climbs down, and arm in arm, he walks, his Queen beside him.

It is all he can do not to laugh deliriously at the way their faces pale when their helmets are removed, when they see these ghosts from the past, the dead alive and walking amongst them.

He looks at their faces, for he has wondered if he would feel something, anything, when he saw them again.

But he feels nothing.

There are precious few soldiers remaining. The North is dying.

Those who do remain, who wear their Stark armor, do so on shaking legs. They have surely heard what has happened to the South. They know what has come.

They are afraid, and the air is sweet with it, as he breathes in the cold Northern wind that buffets his face.

“Jon,” Arya says, the sword he gave her so long ago in one hand, a dagger in the other, “what have you done?”

Sansa’s lips curls as she looks from Jon to Daenerys, but she cannot hide the tremble of her chin. Time and hunger have not been kind to her. She is drawn and gaunt, her hair hanging limp, her crown slightly askew.

“You are not welcome here,” she calls out. “Leave at once, or we shall have no choice but to strike.”

Jon barks out a sharp laugh, turns slightly to see Daenerys’s eyes dancing with amusement, a tiny smile dancing on her lovely lips. He looks at Arya, nods his head in the Northern Queen’s direction. “This is the smartest person you know, eh?”

He looks at the haggard faces of the few men who remain. They are no different than the soldiers he has seen, at every other Keep. “Strike, then,” he says blandly. “Bring down upon us the full force of the North.”

Sansa says nothing, her jaw grinding, a muscle ticking in her cheek. “They are not here.”

“Empty threats are dangerous things,” Jon says, and strokes his hand along his jaw. “But I must admit, it is good to be home. Clearly,” he calls out, waving his hand in the air, ensuring all who are nearby can hear, “the North has prospered under your virtuous rule. But I have to wonder, oathbreaker,” he says, rounding on the redhaired woman, whom he’d once fought to protect, “was it worth it?”

Arya is watching him, her eyes glittering darkly, tracking his every move. Perhaps she thinks she will best him in single combat. Perhaps she means to strike at his Queen. She is surely plotting something foolish, but it matters little.

There is nothing they can do, either of them, now.

He is sure they know.

He smiles, and sees how it provokes them both.

“Mother was right about you, bastard,” Sansa spits at him, and he only smiles wider. She is trying to raise his ire, trying to pick at old wounds that have long since scarred over.

“Bastard?” Now it is Daenerys who responds, and when he looks upon her he sees the elegant arch of her brow, sees the way her chin lifts. “Does the trueborn blood of House Stark not run in his veins? Did his lady mother not imbue him with that which also resides in you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa replies, her eyes like blue chips of ice. Arya, he notices, seems torn, but still she remains at her sister’s side. It is no affront, in his mind. It is merely their way. “I am the Queen, and we will not yield. You are monsters, the pair of you, and only few have been wise enough to understand that from the start.”

Jon sidesteps her, walks the line of Northern soldiers, can see the fear in their eyes as his great red dragon lets out a low growl. “Surrender your arms, and see to your families. They will be fed, and clothed, and cared for. The Broken King is dead,” he proclaims, “and a new ruler now bids you welcome, for our son has come to claim what is his. And he bids that you heed no more the chains placed ‘round your necks, by those who would do naught but send you to certain slaughter. He would see you prosper. He would see you rule yourselves.”

From his back, he hears Arya’s voice. “The Old Gods protect us.”

He turns, and meets Daenerys’s eyes, as the men of North lay down their arms.

“Your Gods are gone,” his Queen says. “But something new has come, to fill the void they have left behind.”

Jon nods.

He walks.

He skins his steel, and Arya has but a moment to gasp at him in shock before Longclaw finds a home between her shoulder blades.

“Tis almost a pity,” he says, as she falls to the ground, pulling his blade free and coming to stand beside his bride of fire. His eyes meet Sansa’s and he sees she finally understands. There will be no treating, no diplomacy. Finally, a moment has arrived that she cannot talk herself out of. There is no escape. “She was always my favorite.”

He looks over the shoulder of the trembling Northern Queen, and meets the eyes of the nearest guard. “Fetch me a block,” he says, and the man complies readily enough.

Sansa kneels, finally, spitting and clawing and screaming as her head is forced to the wood. “May all the Gods curse you for what you do here!” He rolls his eyes, and bends down, so that only she and his beloved wife may hear what he says next.

“We are the Gods now,” Jon intones, and straightens. He meets her hate-filled stare head on, and swings his blade.

House Stark falls, and the last piece falls into place.

The greatest peace he has ever known comes in watching the ancient Keep consumed by flame, for even stone cannot withstand dragonfire.

The old world is dead, and the new has come.

And Jon is, at last, content.

\--------

One age ends, and another begins, and a gentle hand strokes his brow.

“What shall we do now, my love?” She whispers from beside him, from their bed atop the great pyramid of Meereen.

He turns, and considers her.

He smiles.

“Whatever we want,” he answers, and takes her hand in his.

For there is one more thing Jon knows, and of all the Gods who have staked their claim in the realms of men, he thinks that perhaps it was the Ironborn God who came closest to the truth of things.

What is dead may never die.

And so, he thinks, as he kisses her sweetly, they shall live forever.

For them, there are no more endings.

Only beginnings.


End file.
